


The Sparrow and the Wolf

by teethonmydress



Category: OC Fanfiction - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, just rough times being had in general
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-03-31 21:12:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3993043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teethonmydress/pseuds/teethonmydress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"because out of all the ghosts<br/>who have come in an out of my bedroom,<br/>you’re the only one who didn’t<br/>leave the bed cold.<br/>you’re the only one<br/>who kept the lights on."</p><p>-Caitlyn Siehl, excerpt from “Seven”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> first and foremost: NONE OF THE CHARACTERS ARE MINE  
> this is a fanfic for my best friend using the characters of her own original work.)  
> but yea!! i really hope you guys like it (and that she likes it most of all)!!  
> any questions/concerns feel free to message me or leave a comment!
> 
> EDIT: You can now read her story!!  
> http://www.wattpad.com/132954514-untitled-chapter-one

They called him _ninkiibaalashaada_ , man of wings. When she went to the markets it was all she’d hear about, when she cleared the tables at the bar it was all the customers would talk about. How the _ninkiibaalashaada_ was staying at the brothel just down the street, how he’d arrived here on the back of a lion. Or an eagle. Or a strange contraption that looked like something from the books in the Great Library. She’d heard everything from him having a third eye to no teeth to having features so beautiful men’s wives fainted on spot. Honestly, she was fed up with all this talk of some white boy coming in from the Wilds. It was just buzz—people came through this city every day, merchants, whores, runaways—what made him any different?

 

It was all just buzz, in two days he would leave after he’d drank and whored himself full, like they always did. People would start talking about something else that would annoy Valia to no end, life would go on.

 

The day went as it normally did, she woke just as the sun was breaching the horizon, cleaned the tables in the bar, restocked the shelves with the multi-hued bottles her father kept under lock and key. Then it was to the markets, where she had to endure more mindless jabber about the newcomer as the butcher sold her discounted pigfeet. Valia managed to press her lips together and nod through the conversation, rolling her eyes in exasperation every time the fat man turned his back to retrieve something. Weaving her way through the packed city streets, Valia danced around the grabbing hands of pickpockets, basket of food balanced on her hip, sending tight-lipped smiles to all of those who tried to greet her to avoid conversation.

 

She was clearing the table of two regulars when the entire bar quieted at the opening of a door. She didn’t even glance up as the new customer came waltzing in—he spoke loudly in a tongue foreign to her own, yet familiar. It was loud, brash, in stark contrast with the flowing script of Kenturana that had rumbled through this bar since her father had built it. The city was a merchant’s town, yes. But it still held to its roots, visitors seldom spoke their native tongue out of respect. Until now, she supposed.

 

But while she took offense, others quieted just to listen the harsh syllables flow from the man’s mouth. He was with a companion, scarves of linen wrapped loosely around their heads and necks in the fashion of the merchants. Both their heads bowed in deep conversation, his companion nodded slowly in understanding, neither paying any heed in the sudden silence of the bar. Valia bit the inside of her cheek and kept cleaning the table, flashing a controlled smile to the red-faced men who stared at the foreigner over the rims of their mugs.

 

“Valia! Girl! Over here.” The man’s friend, a trader of wares by the look of him, motioned her over with a crooked finger, still rapidly speaking with the man. Reluctantly, the threw the small piece of cloth she had been wiping the table down with over her shoulder and took her time walking towards the two, the soft leather of her sandals not making a sound against the floor. “Pretty thing, isn’t she?” The man, older than her father, probably eastern by his accent, wrapped an uninvited arm around her waist. He spoke in the Old tongue, that was how she recognized it. Not many still spoke it—she hadn’t realized the foreigner was from the Kingdom Cities. Her father always had promised to take her there, when she was young. Still unaware that she could understand every word  coming from his  mouth, the merchant kept talking. “Don’t get girls like this down at the whore houses, huh? Shame. She does pretty well as a house mouse, got to count your blessings—eh?” The man laughed from his belly, a sound amplified by the eerie silence of the place. The foreigner barely gave him a tight-lipped smile, finally craning his head upwards to look at her.

 

Her breath caught in her throat, but she held his eyes evenly. He was attractive, she’d give him that. His nose was a little more tan than the rest of his face, jaw unshaven, eyes clear and understanding. Valia blinked slowly then untangled herself from the foreigner’s… friend. He popped something into his mouth, a piece of rolled paper, something similar to the _haakias_ the sailors liked to smoke—however it did not carry the same sickly-sweet sent that sent her stomach rolling, it was more the scent of.. burnt earth. That was it, burnt earth.

 

“What would you like, my brother?” The merchant drummed at the table with scarred hands. “Surely I can get at least a few stories out of you with a few drinks?”

 

“This ‘house mouse’ can speak for herself.” Valia snapped, Old tongue thick in her mouth. It had been a while since she’d needed to use it—ever since her father left, really. The merchant looked shocked, the corner of the foreigner’s mouth turned upwards in a genuine smile this time around as he plucked the strange-smelling _haakia_ from his lips and blew the smoke from his mouth. “What would you like?”

 

“Just water would be enough, some honied wine if you have it.” The foreigner stood, offering her his hand, the other held the _haakia_ loosely between two fingers. “A pleasure to meet you, I'm Salem of Kingdom City. I’d like to apologize for the behavior of my acquaintance, I’m afraid we’ve already had quite a bit to drink.” 

 

She regarded his outstretched hand warily, not accepting the friendly greeting with the same amount of warmth. It took her a minute to come up with the right words. “This is a bar, not a smokehouse.” The man, Salem, had the common decency to look abashed, quickly putting out the haakia with the sole of his boot. “Do men from this ‘Kingdom City’ of yours usually drink water in bars? Or can you not hold your liquor?”

 

Valia heard a few laughs and that seemed to break the silence, the usual sing-song chatter of the bar returning. Her shoulders finally relaxed, she let go of a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I will get you some wine. Drink it or don’t—I don’t care, as long as you pay. If you need a room we have plenty available.”

 

If he said anything, she didn’t stay long enough to listen. 

 

Throughout the rest of the evening she felt his eyes on her, Valia chose to ignore them, chose to ignore how long he and his friend took the liberty of staying long beyond their welcome, to the point where they’d gathered quite the group around their table, drinking, sharing stories, laughing. A pretty little eastern girl had found her way onto the traveler’s lap, bronze hued hair laying against her back in a thick plait. He looked uncomfortable with her wandering hands and flirty smiles at all of his jokes, but he didn’t make the motion to move her. Valia managed to keep her amusement to herself, not even looking at the man whenever she came by to refill their cups, accepting the coins Salem gave her without a second glance. The merchant left with a boy claiming to be from the Northern Cities, who told stories of golden-capped spires and men with turquoise braided into their hair. Their hands lingered on each others’ the same way the eastern girl touched Salem’s chest, but there was something more there for them though. Something bigger.

 

Valia watched from her position behind the counter as Salem tried to make smalltalk without the help of his translator, the moon was now high in the sky and the bar only held the few remnants of the gathering. The eastern girl left when he finally pushed her off him, stumbling out the door with a scowl on her face. Some of the lingering customers laughed, Salem just finished off what was left in his bottle and stood, pushing away from the table with the sound of his chair scraping against the wood filling the soft silence that had come over the room in a blanket. Now it was only the regulars left, the drunks that didn’t have any other place to go, friends of her father’s, hired gunsmen of the city’s watch. (Usually the regulars were a combination of the three, which said something about the friends her father had made over the years.) They all stayed their welcome, and Valia trusted them enough to keep their own peace. It was the foreigner she grew suspicious of, not the known thief passed out on the back table, or the men with weapons strapped to their backs huddled around each other drinking in silence. Salem was… unpredictable. She didn’t like that.

 

She especially didn’t like it when he pulled a barstool up and sat down right across from her, empty bottle held loosely in one hand, stretched out to her in an offering. She glanced up from the papers strewn about the counter, looking from the bottle to his face the same way she did when he offered his hand. “Are you trying to get me to empty your pockets, traveler?”

 

He laughed at that, it was a pleasant sound. “I think so, actually.” Once realizing she wasn’t going to take it, he placed the bottle down, rubbing his finger over the label. They’d switched from wine to ale once Valia complained about them draining her wine, he’d been nursing the same bottle for the better half of the night. “Tanquo said you had rooms for rent. Suppose that would empty my pockets a little more?” He smiled at his own joke, cheeks flushed but eyes focused, clearer than they should be.

 

Valia said nothing, just grabbed a glass from under the counter and filled it with water. He laughed again when she placed it in front of him, but drank from it all the same. “A bartender that cuts a man off from his liquor—is everywhere in the south like this? Honestly I’m impressed."

 

“You will thank me in the morning.” She turned away before he could catch the smile on her lips. “Beds are eight silver a night, not including food and drink or shower time. That’s extra.” She slipped out from behind the bar, refilling the glasses of the hired gunsmen before going back to where the foreigner sat. He raised an eyebrow at her as she returned, casting a glance over at the four men before turning back to her. “They’re friends of my father.” She answered the question before he asked it, busying herself with the papers she’d been reading before Salem had sat across from her. “Their payment comes in the form of protection. They help out from time to time, their being here tends to keep away most of the…” She took a moment to remember the word. “Criminals.” She glanced at the thief, then back to Salem. “Well, the ones that pose a threat.” 

 

His smile grew. “Was that a threat?”

 

“Possibly.” She gathered the papers in a neat stack, tapping the water-worn pages against the wood to straighten them, then refilled his now empty glass with water. He studied her with eyes narrowed. She didn’t like that.

 

“Forgive me, I don’t think I ever caught your name.” He lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed, meeting her gaze evenly.

 

“Valia.” She pressed her lips together and straightened, inhaling deeply. “Will you take the room now or leave before the night gets any later?” The corner of his lip lifted upwards in the beginning of a smile. He placed eight silver on the counter in answer.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. mountains. waves. walls.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I knew I did from that first moment we met. It was… Not love at first sight exactly, but - familiarity. Like: oh, hello, it’s you. It’s going to be you."  
> -Mhairi McFarlane

She woke the next morning with a crick nipping at the back of her neck and a headache, the dream she had barely a whisper--Valia still knew what dream it was that left the sour taste across her tongue, her eyes burning. She didn’t remember her dreams of him very often. But they were there. They were always there.

  


(Some of the girls her father gathered for her to talk to told her they’d never really go away. But it would get better, with time. It’d been three years, sometimes she still woke up crying without knowing why.)

  


Her mood only worsened the moment she journeyed downstairs to find the man leaning against the bar with another one of those things dangling from his lip. His hair looked disheveled, eyes groggy, the piece of paper held between his hands shook with the force that he held it. When he glanced up to see her at the base of the stairs, he made quick work of folding the piece of paper and tucking it into his back pocket, plastering on a fake smile while his eyes remained void of light.

  


“What are you doing awake at this time?” The sun had barely risen--not even visible over the houses and the walls protecting the city, the dark sky was barely tinged with the deep reds and purples whispering against the clouds. It was quiet, usually her favorite time of the day. (A little hard to be happy right then though. She ached, her throat hurt for a reason she couldn’t exactly place.)

  


“My translator told me you went to the markets occasionally, in the mornings.” He extinguished his _haakia_ with the sole of his boot, pushing off the counter and walking to the door. He held it open for her, the same fake smile curling his features upwards. Some of it reached his eyes this time, at least. “If you don’t mind, I’ve never been to a southern marketplace before--if you don’t mind, of course, I was wondering if I could join you? Just for a while, promise I won’t get in your way or anything.”

  


And she thought today couldn’t get any worse.

  


" _Go easy on the poor boy, little one.”_  She jerked her head up the stairs, startled at how easily the man had snuck up on her. He was one of the friends of her father’s, a grizzled man by the name of Baeleal. A true-born southerner, by the thickness of his accent whenever he tried to speak the Old tongue, a true-born gunsman--one of the many reasons her father had taken a liking to him. She had memories of him from the cradle, mostly good, some bad. He was a good man, a brave man, but believed in corporal punishment a little more passionately than her father. (He never physically struck her, but threatened to more times than she could count. To be far, she deserved it.) His heavy boots barely made a sound against the worn carpeting of the stairs. Valia sidestepped to let him pass, letting out a flustered breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. " _I don’t think he’s one to catch on as easily as you may hope.”_  He slid past Salem, going to his usual table by the window, propping his gun up against his leg. Valia glanced back at the traveler, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips. _”I don’t think your father would be very pleased to hear of you treating newcomers this way either.”_

  


She gave up with a sag of her shoulders, begrudgingly opening the door with her back. “Fine. Don’t get in my way. If you get lost, I’m not circling back to find you--got it?”

  


Salem nodded eagerly, smile growing a little more genuine with every second that passed.

  


_God help me._

  


\---

  


She never really realized how incredibly annoying the sound of combat boots was against cobblestone. People usually wore the thin-soled leather sandals to avoid the heat of heavy leather--but of course, ever completely oblivious, Salem waltzed down the street beside her, thick rubber soles pounding against the stone. He kept looking up at the buildings and the towering sandstone walls reaching high above them, he remarked how this reminded him of his home, Kingdom City. She didn’t bother telling him that pretty much every city _needed_ walls protecting it from the Wilds, though he probably just brought it up as a conversation starter. (It didn’t work.)

  


He kept running his mouth as she focused on anything _but_ his words--more important things, like the way the buzzards circled above, which puddles to avoid, squeezing past others who walked the same path as they. Her city always hummed with energy, the smell of cooking meats, the shouting of vendors, the screaming of children. As soon as they rounded the corner of a tightly-packed alleyway, they were hit with a wall of noise coming from the city center. Women with skin even darker than her own sold fabrics in every color, golden thread woven into intricate shapes and patterns. A man with no eyes grinned and motioned passer-by to his stall where dried cobras lay coiled on tables and animals of every nature positioned neatly around him. He spoke in an accent that was so fake it was almost offensive, but Salem seemingly fell for it--as most of the visitors did--staring at the man in awe.

  


That was another thing about the markets, it was one of the biggest mix of different cultures from all around the globe it was sometimes a little much to wrap one's head around. Valia had been taught from a young age the important lessons of respect, so it didn’t really alarm her all that much. (Her father had taught her the easiest way to _show_ respect was through language, made sure to teach her everything he knew before going off on his expeditions. Each trip, he brought back with him more information of cultures she could never have known existed from the old books of the libraries scattered around her city.)  Salem, however, was visibly overwhelmed, eyes wide, immediately going quiet as he just took everything in.

  


“Stick to me, keep an eye on your money--with merchants come pickpockets.” She balanced her wicker basket on one hip while twisting the thick leather band wrapped around the waist of her dress to the back, so he could hook his fingers onto the belt loop. He did so almost immediately, with little hesitation, still taking in every sight and sound surrounded them with wide eyes. (She told herself that if she lost him Baeleal would never let her hear the end of it. Although the look of awe on his face was a little satisfying to see--obviously his merchant friend, she seemed to remember his name being Tanquo, thought the man’s interest was only in the surrounding brothels, little else.)

  


He followed her in the same sort of awed silence as she led him through her daily routine. Exchange a few jabs with the baker, pay little to nothing for bread that the gray-haired woman who ran the stall said was “payment for that favour I owe your father”. (Something she’d been telling Valia since she started coming to the markets with her father. Valia assumed it was a very large favor.) The baker gave an odd look between her and Salem before doing a poor job of containing a gap-toothed smile.

  


“Does your father do a lot for the merchants?” Salem had to raise his voice over the sonority of the crowd, even with the distance between them being little than a few inches apart. (The closeness of the crowd, of course, had pushed him a little too close for comfort. She was unable to do much about it.) “I’ve heard him mentioned around a lot.”

  


“You speak Kenturana?” She cast a glance over her shoulder with an eyebrow raised before trying to shoulder her way further into the crowd. “I didn’t expect you to be the type.”

  


“I’ve picked up a few phrases, here and there--sorry! Sorry about that,” he cut himself off, shouting apologies for her. Valia pressed onwards without hesitation. “Not much to hold a conversation, but enough to understand some things.”

  


“Impressive.” She didn’t answer his question, she didn’t very much like talking about her father with men she only knew for a night at most. Usually the conversation didn’t come to that, but Salem seemed to be the curious sort. “Do you know many languages then, Salem?”

  


“No, not many. I haven’t been traveling for long, mainly along the coast. This has been the first actual city I’ve come across for at least a month or two. Everyone else I’ve met has been pretty well versed in English.”

  


“English?” It wasn’t a term she was familiar with, it felt rough on her tongue.

  


“Ah, sorry, um… what do you call it? _Old tongue_?”

  


He completely butchered the pronunciation, she paid no mind. “Oh, I see. So you’ve been skirting the coast, then? Surprised you didn’t find any other port-cities.” They were nearing the butcher’s stall, she could see the hanging meat over the heads of the congregation--Dannis was known for having the best meats of the coast, with a farm right outside of the city’s walls. He says the Wilds toughens the animals up, puts stronger blood and better meat on them. “Rha is a little more difficult to find then the rest of them.” Even though it was larger than most of the port-cities, Rha remained more tucked away, something people usually stumble upon, rather than actively seek out.

  


“It’s a... long story.” Something in the way he said it gave her the idea that he didn’t want to dwell on the reason for much longer. Understandable--after all, almost everyone who came to Kentura was running from something. Couldn’t say she wasn’t the slightest disappointed though.

  


Valia had no need to press him further for the sake of conversation as the crowd grew thicker the closer they came to Dannis’s booth. Almost immediately, the screaming of a hen could be heard, followed by the familiar baritone of the man wielding the cleaver. He was laughing at something the woman who grabbed the (now headless) chicken had said as she dropped a handful of coins into his outstretched, unbloodied, hand. He used his free hand to twirl his blade expertly, lips moving fast as he exchanged words with the woman as she stuffed the still squirming animal into her bag. Dannis grinned at her as she left, gold-capped canine giving a dull gleam in the shade of the wall rising high above them. Still too low on the horizon to cast any of its light into the city, the sun had already turned the skies a bright blue and the temperature was slowly beginning to rise. Sweat was already beginning to gather at the back of her neck--it wouldn’t be long before people would begin to crowd into the shadows in efforts to stay cool, then retreat home until noon passed and the heat became considerably less harsh.

  


As soon as Dannis’s eyes met her own, his grin grew wider, his posture straightened, he used the knife in his hand to motion her forward, through the crowd. Salem, suddenly very quiet, unhooked his fingers from her belt and instead stepped to her side. She’d given him her basket once they’d past the baker’s, and he looked oddly dignified with it, holding it between his hip and his outstretched right arm as she had previously. He tilted his head slightly to the side, quickly giving a smile just as fake as the one she’d seen that morning.

  


Both Salem and Dannis were about the same height, same age--she’d guess just a year or two older than herself--but just about there was where the similarities ended. Dannis’s skin tone was better compared with her’s, a deep tawny color, though he lacked the scattering of freckles she bore across the bridge of her nose. His dread were about shoulder-length when they weren’t tied at the crown of his head as they were now, and his hands still held the slightest of a tremor, the outcome of working for her father. (She pretended not to notice how they only steadied when he had the cleaver in his hands.) The garish mechanism strapped to what was left of his right leg another outcome of working for her father.

  


“Valia!” He grabbed two hens from the cage at his feet. “ _The usual, yeah?_ ” The chickens squawked, wings flapping uselessly in the air as he hauled them up onto the chopping block.

  


“Wring their necks, I only have the basket with me.” Valia nodded towards Salem before fishing through the satchel tied at her hip for the proper coin. She didn’t see his startled look at her sudden change to--what had Salem called it? English? A fitting word for the language. Her father had made sure all of his men were just as well-versed in other tongues as he was, Dannis might be a bit rusty but she knew he’d manage. (She didn’t really understand why she wanted the traveler to be able to understand, but it was too late to slip back into Kenturana.)  “No pork today? Or beef?”

  


“The flies were worse than expected, today.” It was then that Dannis finally acknowledged Salem, giving him the same once-over the baker had--his eyeswere a bit more narrowed, a bit more critical. “Only chickens, wouldn’t attract as many of ‘em then the raw meat. Tomorrow though, heard there were going to be rains.” The familiar crack of vertebrae splintering, and Dannis was handing the limp bodies to Salem, eyes still narrowed. _”Who’s your northern friend? Your father know he’s with you?”_

  


Dannis was one of the few people who knew what had happened three years ago, he was the one who took the longest to stop treating her like she was made of glass. She ignored the hints of warning in his tone completely. “Dannis, this is Salem of Kingdom City. Salem, Dannis.”

 

Still wearing the same smile, Salem stuck out the hand that wasn't holding onto the basket. “Pleased to meet you.”

 

“Likewise.” The flash of recognition in his eyes did not go unnoticed. _So he'd heard the rumors too..._ It seemed like the northern man had gathered a bit of attention then she thought. Dannis did not shake his hand in return, just jerked his head in Salem's direction then motioned the next person in line forward. Valia took that as their cue to leave.

 

\---

 

She wasn't exactly sure how they ended up where they were. One thing led to another, he'd jerked her to a halt at a fruits stand, asked her which ones tasted the best—Valia pointed to the figs without hesitation, and Salem had asked in broken Kenturana how much for them. The vendor had smiled and motioned with her hands the price, Salem had flashed her a polite smile and slid the correct amount of coin across the counter, and nestled the small, finger sized, fruits between the chicken and the bread.

 

“Now where would be the best place in Rha to eat breakfast?” He was still looking to the sky when he spoke, they'd cleared the markets and the crowds that came with them, but they still walked at each other's sides. Valia had taken the basket back, and had been gnawing on a corner of the bread up until this point to calm the rolling of her stomach. The dream had left her with an uneasy feeling, usually it didn't linger this long. (Maybe it was more of the case of: usually she was able to distract herself for long enough to forget it, but now that Salem had already disrupted the normal cycle of her day it was becoming increasingly more difficult to do so.)

 

Valia glanced sideways at him with a single eyebrow raised, but didn't protest to his suggestion. “The docks I'd guess, there are places to sit on the rocks and the sailors don't usually bother to stop and talk.”

 

“You like that, don't you?” He said it simply, still looking forward without a hint of malice, keeping a steady pace with long strides. Valia couldn't help but let the corners of her lips curl upwards in the barest suggestion of a smile.

 

“What are you trying to say, northern boy?” It came out a little harsher than she intended, but the look of horror that crossed over his face was worth it.

 

“N-no! No, I-I didn't mean it in that way at all I-oh lord I'm sorry I just--” He stopped abruptly, eyes wide, a look of mortification making his eyes go wide, eyebrows knitting together. “I didn't—I just—“

 

She kept walking a few paces, pressing her lips together in attempts to compose herself when she turned around. She gave him the best offended look she could muster with a laugh bubbling in her throat. Hand on hip, eyes narrowed considerably. It lasted about five seconds before she was holding her stomach with laughter, laughing harder then she had in a very long time. (Looking back, it wasn't even that funny, but something about the tension, and the look in his eyes at the thought of offending her—she wasn't really sure, but it was nice. She liked it.) “I'm messing with you,” she managed to gasp out, straightening slightly, trying to quell her amusement. “I'm just messing with you.”

 

“O-oh,” Salem looked very confused for a second before smiling, resuming his pace beside her. “I was trying to say you like being able to… observe, rather then busy yourself with formalities. I know someone whose like that too, that's all—though they're a little more rude about it, that's all.”

 

“I take it you don't like this person very much?” She made sure to state it as matter-of-factly as possible, no room to interpret offense in any way, just curiosity.

 

“No… no they're… they're very special to me.” He took a moment to think. “He's family. He's an idiot, a horrible, _stupid_ idiot. But he's still family.” He grit his teeth as if that fact angered him. Quickly, trying to distract her from the words that just left his mouth, Salem started talking again. “You never answered my question before, about your father.”

 

She ignored his question. “A boyfriend then?”

 

The muscle in his jaw twitched, she could tell she was walking a dangerously thin line. “No. God no. My brother.” Quieter this time. “He's my brother.”

 

\---

 

Rha was shaped as a U, the open side guarded only by the sea and the volcanic rock jutting from the waves. The same rocks traveled up the shores in a uniform line, a natural extension of the walls guarding them from the Wilds. The rocks on the shore, considerably smaller then the mammoths in the sea, yet still slightly larger than any of the ships in port, served as a playing ground for children, shelter for the homeless, and a resting place for any with tired feet. Valia scaled them easily, used to coming up here to look at the sunrises on the chance that sleeping that particular night was too difficult, Salem had a considerably harder time, but did manage to keep a steady pace behind her. Her usual resting place, atop on of the larger rocks, was large enough to fit the both of them—with the basket placed between the two. She ripped a piece of bread off from the loaf for the two of them to share, then taught Salem how to split a fig without the use of the knife strapped to her leg. All in silence. An easy silence. A comfortable silence.

 

She broke it when they'd finished the fruit, just staring out at the sea, watching as children played in the surf, mothers gathering the shoreline in constant worry, calling out if they thought their child had wandered too far. From the docks, sailors of all races and sizes spoke a jumble of languages, unloading cargo from ships that rocked gently from side to side. “My father is a traveler. Like you.” She could tell how the mention of his brother had upset him. She guessed it was all that she could do, repay the favor. “He goes to places, helps people, makes connections to keep Rha thriving and healthy. This city means a lot to him, we've lived here a long time. This place… is a good place, for him. For his memories. He likes it here.” She tucked her dress around her, trying to busy her hands, trying to play off the information she was giving to him. No matter he was a total stranger, she didn't like talking about her father like he was… gone. He wasn't. But sometimes, when the letters abruptly ceased for months on end, it almost felt like it. “But the older he gets the more he travels—it's hard for him to call a place home, he gets too restless to stay in one place for too long.” _Sometimes it's like he forgets that he has a daughter waiting for him. Sometimes it's like he_ is _dead. Sometimes._ She didn't say that though, Valia didn't fancy the idea of taking pity from a stranger. “But I understand, being angry at your family is very easy. You can hate someone for something but love them at the same time. It's harder to love someone unconditionally—I think that's… a different kind of love, the unconditional sort.”

 

“Do you miss him?” He didn't look at her, for that she was grateful. The waves made a good distraction, their foamy peaks forming momentary mountains, stark and beautifully vicious against the icy backdrop of blue, before they collapsed, crumbled in on themselves and slapped against the rocks with violence.

 

“Of course.” They both spoke with a certain type of quietness, both aware of the very thin line they were treading. Together. “But that doesn't mean there isn't a part of me that sometimes wishes he'd just stay gone, if he was going to leave in the first place. It's hard to accept that part of me.” She could feel his eyes on her now, dark with an emotion she couldn't quite place.

 

“Have you?”

 

“No.” The waves whispered their apologies against the rock as they retreated back into the ocean. “I don't think anyone ever could.”

 


	3. steady silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How easy that must be. Easy to leave and then come back. You go. You’re missed. Time works for you. Then you return, embellished by memory.   
> Yes, that must be easy. But to stay and live with someone—to share his everyday life, that’s something else. You can’t do anything about that."
> 
> \--Nathalie to Garance, from “Children of Paradise”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: past abuse is mentioned in this chapter along with the beginnings of a flashback~

The bar was quieter that night. She made stew from the chicken and the few leftover dried herbs they had in the cellar from the past summer, Salem ate with the hired guns after Baeleal invited him to their table with a motion of his hand. (Thankfully, the rest of her father's men spoke the Old tongue a little more fluently then the older man. That night the crowd was a lot younger, laughed more then the ones that had been in the practice for a few years, said her father sent them to come through the city to check up on her before heading further south on the word of a whaler that promised gold and oil aplenty further downland. They were already drunk and singing by the time the sun had set, Baeleal glacing over them with a look that could only been described as mild amusement.) He seemed to like them, by the amount that he smiled and laughed along with their muted voices, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck every so often when they forced him to repeat words that sounded amusing to them.

 

Valia chose to stay behind the counter, she learned not to get attached to the people that came through here, especially the ones sent here on her father's word. They'd be gone by morning, probably more then half of them dead in the next week, trying to get through the Wilds to this mystery town they all kept talking about. You could see it in their eyes, too, that they knew the truth of the matter. Maybe the eminent doom was what bonded them. Or the promise of glory. Most likely both. Baeleal reassured her that he was going to stay a few more days before going back to her father, she didn't bother asking where he was now, just handed him the stack of letters she had saved, tucked under the bed for months in hopes of getting a clue as to his whereabouts. (The hired guns that came in passing never knew his exact location, he moved too frequently to pinpoint where he'd be next. She usually had to wait until she got a letter from him or Baeleal or any one of his trusted companions telling her where to send the letters—by then she would have to send them in bulk, probably a month or two after he went off in the first place. The farther away he was, the longer she had to wait for that letter. Unless someone like Baeleal stopped by again, then she'd just give all of them to him.)

 

“So you're the big man's daughter?” She glanced up from the glass she was cleaning, raising her brows at the question directed at her. The man, practically a boy—defiantly younger than her by three years at least—had dark hair cropped close to his skull with eyes a light hazel. He sat next to a woman with the same coloring, haircut, and facial features, slightly hooked nose, plump lips—though the scar that ripped through her face in a diagonal slash set them very much apart. Valia could see her chest bindings peaking out from beneath the black tank top she wore. She was his sister, most likely. The woman stopped showing Salem the giant knife she had strapped to her arm at the sound of her brother's raised voice, gaze flicking from Valia back to her sibling, the grin slowly melting off her face, eyebrows knitting together. “Valia, is it?”

 

She reached up to hang the glass to dry on the copper rack above her, throwing the towel she was using over her shoulder. “Yes,” Valia replied slowly, unsure as to where the boy was going to take the conversation. “What of it?”

 

“Those were your drawings, hanging up on his walls? I mean, we were only in there for a moment, but from what I could see they all had the same...” He thought a moment for the correct word. “Style, is it?” She gave the slightest nod, picking up another glass, dipping it in the bucket of water at her feet. She could feel Salem's eyes on her now, warm and curious. She could feel everyoneseyes on her.  _That_  she didn't like.

 

“Unless the old man found another daughter of his to draw for him, yes.” She was only half joking. “Why?”

 

“Nothing just—they were very beautiful, the one of the old woman especially.” He shrugged as if in attempts to brush off the weight of his statement. “I like the ones of the landscapes, too. But the old woman was my favorite.”

 

“Please excuse my brother,” the woman's accent was much thicker. She shot the boy a scathing look before addressing Valia again. “He sometimes forgets his tongue, I promise he wont do it again.” The boy scowled and looked back down at his drink, going quiet at his sister's harsh words.

 

“It's forgiven,” she tried to keep the words light. People were beginning to look away again, return to their conversations, Salem's eyes were still trained on her. She felt tension flood from her shoulders. “Thank… you, boy, for the compliment. Though I don't think I caught your name.”

 

“Roe,” he spoke with considerably less courage, eyes cast downwards to his ale. “And my sister, Ermine.” She sheathed her knife and dipped her head in acknowledgment, turning then to return to her conversation with Salem. He wasn't listening to her. Valia's eyes caught with his for a moment before she quickly looked away. (They hadn't talked since the rocks, by the time she returned back to the bar he'd split off to explore the markets a little more.)

 

“Roe and Ermine of…? Forgive me, your accents are unfamiliar.”

 

He laughed ruefully into his mug before taking a drink. “You wouldn't know. A village to the far east,” he motioned with a tilt of his head, finished off the rest of his ale in one gulp, then continued. “Your father uh… helped, many of our people. We thought we should repay the favor.” Roe patted the beast of a gun balanced against his leg.

 

Valia nodded slowly, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain with her thumb. “Well, Roe of 'you wouldn't know', I'll make sure to keep you in mind the next time my father comes around.” He blushed and continued to train his gaze on his cup. His sister forcefully patted him on the back of his head and rolled her eyes, mouthed her apologizes in Valia's direction, and began conversing to the man directly across the table from her, probably realizing that all attempts in conversation of knives and guns were completely lost on Salem.

 

She finished up washing the glasses and pushed through the door behind her, into the small kitchen hidden away behind the bar. Sometimes when the place got a little too full, on holidays mostly, they hired a cook to fill out the food orders. On quiet nights Valia could keep up by herself, usually achieving this by only having one thing on the menu. It was getting late, most had left the bar to return home—those who didn't have one lingered, as they always did, before one of the gunsmen herded them out with empty threats and drunken laughter. She was cleaning the knife she'd used to gut the chickens when the sound of the door closing jerked her out of her concentration.

 

Salem leaned against the counter, rubbing a hand over his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose and shuttering an exhale through his mouth. He looked pale, shaken almost. Valia studied him a moment, then went back to rubbing the knife with her rag. “Are you alright?”

 

“Yeah, yeah—is it okay if I stay in here a bit? There's uh… they've got...”

 

“You don't like the guns,” she stated simply, shrugging her shoulders, not looking back over at him. She wasn't going to pry. The last time she did she ended up having to repay the favor simply out of an odd sort of guilt. He laughed, it carried little humor behind it.

 

“How could you tell?”

 

“When Ermine started to show you her pistol you looked like you'd just seen a ghost. Didn't react the same way to the knife. I just assumed,” she wiped the blade down and placed it beside the others. “Hard to like them for what they're used for. But some… evils, are necessary.” She turned, reaching to her tip-toes to grab a bottle from the self above her, the amber liquid inside sloshing noisily with the sudden movement, and plucked a glass from the rack and set it down next to him. She filled the cup half way then re-corked the bottle, placing it on the counter, in reach if he needed more than she gave him.

 

Salem made a sound low in his throat, she was unsure if it was in thanks or something entirely different.

 

She turned back to the cutting board and they continued like that in silence, Salem keeping to the counter near the door while she cleaned up the rest of the kitchen. She began preparing for tomorrow's meal with the vegetables Dannis had sent over later in the day with a letter inviting her over for supper at the farm the next time she had a free night. (She usually did her best to politely refuse with these types of invitations, though Valia always had trouble with the “polite” part.)

 

When Salem spoke again it startled her.

 

“Were you flirting with him?” Salem asked, distracting himself by running a finger over the lip of his cup.

 

It took her a moment to realize what he was talking about. “No!” Her lip curled upwards in disgust. “No, god no.”

 

“Really?” He pressed his lips together in the way he did when he was trying to conceal a smile.

 

“Why?” She met his question with another, reaching to hook the glass onto the drying rack. “Did it seem like it?”

 

“A little, yeah.” Salem shrugged and glanced at her, mouth peeling open to reveal another one of his grins. “What makes you so friendly with these guys and not with the customers last night?”

 

“I shouldn't give you liquor, it makes you brave of mouth.” He laughed at that. She couldn't help smiling with him. “You saw those markings, on the arm of their jackets?” She could still see them through the small circle of glass in the door, most of the gunsmen had the canvas jackets draped over the backs of their chairs, sitting at the table in their undershirts and black cargo pants, with boots similar to the ones Salem wore. Looking more relaxed then they ever did patrolling the docks or guarding the wall. The insignias were of four gold-threaded triangles arranged into a pyramid, something her father came up with long before she was born. “That symbol marks them as my father's men. Friends to Rha and her people. Any man or woman in this city walking around with that symbol on their arm can be trusted. You, however,” she motioned at him with the tip of her knife, then went back to chopping carrots. “Came waltzing in here without any caution. I'm still unsure about you.”

 

“Really? You still don't trust me?” The sound of her knife hitting the wood was all there was to fill the silence that spanned between them.

 

“It's hard to trust people here.” Her words grew darker, heavy with the weight of their meaning. “Take that as a warning, northern boy. People don't act as their true selves in this city, hardly anyone ever does.”  _I've learned that lesson the hard way,_ _many times._  Like the first time  _he_ had struck her. Or the second. Or the third. Or how his eyes glinted when he said he loved her. When he found out about the child. The way he said her name. The way she used to say his,  _Roklo,_  first with love, then fear, then with no words at all, just: _him_. When he held her down. When he took. When—

 

There was a hand on her wrist, stilling her, calloused but… soft, gentle yet strong in a way that she was unfamiliar with. It took her a moment to realize it was Salem's hand, another to realize she'd cut herself, on her thumb, barely a nick but still bleeding more then it should have. Even longer to realize there were tears in her eyes—they hadn't fallen yet, but they were about to, burning at the edges of her eyes. She held the knife tightly at first, knuckles turning white with the force at which she held the handle, unsure as to whether or not if she was going to have to defend herself or not. Then she remembered where she was, who the hand over hers was attached to, a man who was afraid of guns and was running from something faster then she ever had. A man who had a brother that he loved but hated, a man that sometimes smiled with pain, sometimes with some of the purest joy she'd seen in a long time. Salem, not  _him_. It was just Salem. She dropped the knife as if it had burned her, his hand still covering hers.

 

She wasn't exactly sure why she kissed him then. Maybe it was because he was already standing behind her, the curve of him hovering over the curve of her, one steadying hand on her back, the other stretched over her arm, fingers clasped around hers. It was the kind of decision she used to make, the kind of recklessness that died when she thought she'd fallen in love with  _him_. Faster then she knew, her hands were sliding into his mess of blond hair, curling her fists into the strands to pull him closer to her, eyes squeezing shut. His arm moving from her back to circle her waist, his right coming up to cup the side of her face. He hesitated a moment, sensing her desperation, then kissed her back. Less forceful, kinder. She slowed with him, adjusting to this rhythm. Gentle. Firm. His touch grounded her, so she bent into it, leaning back over the counter, him following in suit, guided by her hands. Or his hands. She wasn't quiet sure. It didn't really matter. Her arm darted out to catch herself before the both of them fell, his slammed down next to her as she pushed herself up onto the counter and he filled the space between her open legs. She could feel the length of him against her inner thigh, that only gave her more courage. She needed this. Needed  _him_. Just for the time being. Just to forget—just for one  _moment_  to forget, to drown herself in something other then her thoughts. With this new elevation she was just the slightest taller then him, able to twine herself around him fully, arms resting on his shoulders, hands falling from his hair to limply hang behind him, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer.

 

He felt… safe. Calm. She had control over this, if she wanted to. He wouldn't hurt her, not now at least, she just…  _knew_  that. Maybe it was something he'd said on the rocks that gave her this confidence, or the way he worded what few sentences he did say. Or how his eyes softened when he talked of his brother, of his city, of the things he cared about. Or how he cradled her then, not like he thought she would break at any moment, at any push or pull that he made, but as something that was… she didn't know how to put it into words. Equal, to him, yet treated her gently just the same simply by the fact of his nature. He was not a greedy man. He did not take.

 

Another part of him, she could tell, was more hesitant, meeting the small bites she gave to his lips with hands just hovering above her upper thighs, waiting for her permission to go any further. She gave that, eagerly almost, by nipping her way down his neck as she fumbled with the button on his jeans, earning a strangled groan from him that sent her lips twitching upwards in a satisfied smile along with his hands sliding to her backside and slamming her completely against him. With that, her hands being completely useless, pressed against the V of his lower abdomen. Valia laughed into the hollow of his throat and tried to shove him away, just slightly, to try and get to the fastens on his pants.

 

“Wait.” She froze at his panted protest, breathing just as heavily as him, heart pounding against her ribs. (She could feel his, too. Through the soft shirt he wore. It was comforting.) Valia looked at him, brows furrowed in confusion. They were completely level now, the oil lamp glowing dimly above them painting his already flushed face in hues of orange, though she probably looked just as out of breath and desperate as he did.

 

“What?” Horror filled her chest, her hands fell away. “Do you not want this?”

 

“No—god, no.” He parroted her words from earlier, more breathily this time. “I do. A lot. More then I ever thought I could.” Valia's forehead wrinkled even further, if that were possible. Salem inhaled sharply, glancing down at where they'd pressed themselves together, his thumbs rubbing circles into the tops of her thighs. “Just a few things. One: I'm pretty sure your friends are still outside, and can very much hear everything that's above a whisper.” Relief flooded through her in the form of a shaky laugh. Salem didn't crack a smile. Her short lived amusement died in her throat. “Two,” he lifted a hand and cupped her cheek, swiped a thumb under her eye, and pulled back, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. They came back wet.

 

Shame replaced dying amusement, Valia turned sharply, wiping violently at her eyes with the backs of her hands. She was thankful he was unable to see the heat blooming across her cheeks.

 

“Valia.” Salem spoke her name in a low growl that sent a jolt through her. “I want this. With you. Very much.” His hand back on her face again, holding her with soft consideration. He forced her to meet his gaze. “But I want you to be ready. I want you to want this just as much as I do.”

 

She blew a breath through puffed cheeks, trying to cool down her cheeks, trying to steady her hands before placing them on both of his shoulders, pushing him back a little so she could hop down from the counter and edge around him. Valia scrubbed her hands over her face, as if the simple motion alone would be enough to calm her thoughts. “You go first, they'll be more suspicious if we leave together.” She saw his nostrils flare before he nodded grimly, running a hand through his hair to try and control it in some way. (It always looked like someone had run their hands through it though, so she wasn't exactly sure as to what he was trying to accomplish.)

 

Valia watched him go as she tried to control her breathing.

 

She could still hear the gunsmen laughing from below long after she'd said her goodnights and collected the payments for the rooms they were renting. Baeleal had given her a look that she couldn't quite interpret when she left the table to go up the stairs. Valia pretended as if she didn't see, but she knew the man was more clear-headed then the rest of his comrades, and probably easily put two and two together.

 

But it was too late to think twice, something similar of which she repeated to herself to give the courage she needed to knock on the door. Lightly at first, then with a little more force when he didn't answer the first time. “Who is it?”

 

“Valia.” She spoke softly in fear of her voice cracking, or another renter overhearing. The last thing she needed was rumors of the bartender sleeping with her patrons.  _Very_  bad for business. “May I come in?”

 

“It's unlocked.” His voice took on a rougher tone as well, tinged with confusion, a little hope.  _Northern men._  She couldn't help but roll her eyes before pushing the door open, stepping into the room barefoot. He had the lamp on, (something they only had in the rented rooms for the sake of the expense of electricity) with his small bag of things balanced on the seat of a chair, pulled up against the bed. Other then that, the room remained bare, impersonal. Salem sat in the middle of the bed, though got up as soon as she entered the room, placing the book face down against the quilt. Her feet were cold against the wood floors, every other part of her burning hot with his gaze on her and the memory of what his lips, his hands.

 

Valia swallowed before taking one step forward, pulling the sleep shirt she'd put on up and over her head in one fluid motion. The satisfaction of hearing Salem's breath catch at her bareness was enough to spur her onwards, to take the next few steps forward with her chin tilted upwards, shoulders set back. He wetted his lips with his tongue, sitting at the edge of his bed wordlessly. She straddled his lap and helped pull off his own shirt, moving to the button on his jeans with steady hands. His calloused hands scraped against her ribs, holding her firmly above him, holding the both of them anchored, grounded in the moment. She could't turn back, she didn't  _want_  to turn back.

 

The night was soft after that, quiet once they were reduced to a pile of sweaty limbs and labored breath. He'd fallen asleep after smoking another one of his  _haakias_ , stubbing it out on the little ashtray at the bedside table and reaching up to flick off the light, plunging the two of them into darkness. They didn't speak, an odd sort of comfortable silence forming between them.

 

She felt his breaths deepen from where her head rested against his chest, his hand curling over the crook of her knee from where she'd thrown her leg over his hips. He smelled of smoke and the mint he sometimes chewed, he was warm. An anchor. Steady silence, that was what he gave her. Steady silence.

 

Valia waited until he was deeply asleep before disentangling herself from him, holding her own breath when he shifted slightly at a sudden movement she made while sitting up, turning to his side and reaching blindly for her. She waited until he settled with his head on her lap before she moved again, pulling her hands through his hair in the only sort of soothing motion she knew. He looked younger in his sleep, more his age. She couldn't see the scars decorating his body in the darkness barely illuminated by the soft blue light coming from the moon high above them. The window only showed the dark silhouettes of the buildings next to them, the cobblestone below remaining unlit by streetlamps. Somewhere a child cried, dogs barked in response. Downstairs had grown quiet. Steady silence.

 

She stayed there, wrapped up in him like that, longer then she should have. Repeating the motion of her fingers through his hair, staring out the window at the sky and the stars and the silver face of the moon that just peaked from the topmost glass pane. Valia swallowed, gently pushing his head from her lap as she edged off the bed, rummaging through the mix of their discarded clothes on the floor, tugging her shirt over her head once she found it. (It smelled like him. She didn't know how she felt about that.) She stayed at the edge of the bed for a moment, looking over her shoulder at his sleeping form. Hesitating to gather the courage, Valia leaned over one last time, pushing his hair back to press a kiss to his forehead, the crooked bridge of his nose, then, softly, against his lips.

 

The door closed without sound as she eased it behind her, bare feet padding against the floors. Once she was in her own room, Valia let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Going to the bathroom, she used a towel to wash him off of her, throwing off the shirt she wore to replace it with a clean one. She climbed into her own bed and curled around the covers as if the thin sheet of cotton was able to protect her from the rest of the world.

 

She fell asleep in the darkness. She didn't dream. 


	4. the sparrow, the wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "  
> She wants to pray  
> without believing. She wants to give you
> 
> her body without being in the room.
> 
> "
> 
> -Sierra DeMulder

A week passed. The seven days preceding that night (as she started to solely refer to it as: _that night_. Just as she referred to _him_ or _that part of her life_ that came with _him_. Distancing herself. A safety net.) went as normal, to the most basic meaning of the word. She would wake up early in the mornings alone, go to the markets, alone, come back to Baeleal giving her an odd look and informing her that: _“the foreign boy said he was going to work on his_ 'plane'”. Each day she'd duck her head and jerk her shoulders upwards in mock indifference, the reality of eventual confrontation gnawing at the pit of her stomach. But, as she'd learned after the first day, it never came. (The gnawing was still there though, always present.) She'd prepare for the dinner crowd with the radio humming in the background, Salem wouldn't come into the bar until much later, once the sun had set, smelling of oil and the _haakias_ he smoked, coming into the bar with the bang of the door. He'd barely stay to say hello to the customers that called and shouted for him to join them for a round of whatever drinking game they were playing, and make a beeline for the stairs, barely even glancing at her as he passed. She'd angered him, it wasn't difficult to see that.

 

At night, Valia would knock twice on his door. He wouldn't answer her, but she'd push her way in anyway, dressed in the same linen robe that she'd found was easiest to push on and off in a hurry. She'd close the door behind her, lock it, and undress. He always hesitated, a muscle working in his jaw, his Adam's apple bobbing every time he swallowed, but after a moment of unquestioned silence he'd unfurl himself from his position on the bed, his breathing even shakier than her own, and go to her.

 

The first night, he'd wrapped his entire body around her, crushing everything of her against everything of him, the tension of the day releasing as soon as her lips were on his. As soon as her trembling hands pushed his pants down his hips. As soon as he lowered her onto the bed that sank beneath the two of them. And then it was just him and his smell and the way his hands felt against her skin. Good feelings. Distracting ones.

 

The second night they were a bit less rushed, maybe he was a little less angry more… accepting, of this added factor to their relationship. (She wasn't sure exactly what they were, not exactly friends but not strangers to one another by any means. A stranger wouldn't touch her like he did.) Salem held her as he always did, as something coveted yet something equal, his arms banded around her torso, sometimes with her head on his chest, sometimes the other way around. Every night, without fail, he'd smoke one of his _haakias_ when she'd finally curled into his side, stubbing it out against the ceramic bowl at his bedside and reaching over even further, being careful not to disturb her, to turn off the bedside lamp. She'd wait for him to fall asleep by gauging the deepness of his breaths, then, pressing an apologetic kiss to his forehead, the bridge of his nose, then gently against his lips, escape back to her room. It was the first few nights of peaceful sleep she'd had in a long while.

 

The eighth night was when things changed.

 

He'd come back from his plane later than usual, not even glancing at the crowd drunkenly yelling the name given to him by the locals over the regular din of the bar. They were still chanting _ninkiibaalashaada_ after he'd disappeared upstairs—Valia wasn't sure what exactly they were expecting. Baeleal gave her another look that she couldn't quite interpret.

 

Salem returned much later, when everyone had cleared out for the night, sliding into a barstool right across from where she was washing glasses. Valia didn't glance up. They hadn't spoken to each other (in actual, coherent, sentences, that is) in eight days. She would be lying if she said was comfortable with them talking now—their silence was still… fragile, steady but very fragile. One wrong word or one misplaced step would send one, or both, of them falling off of the thin line they walked. Salem, apparently, didn't feel the same way.

 

“So you do this with all of your customers then, or just the ones that gain a little more attention then the others?” The harsh bite of his words told her everything, she didn't need to smell his breath to know it already reeked of liquor. Valia loosened her grip of the glass she hadn't realize she'd been squeezing tightly into her fist, reaching up to place it on the rack above her. She told herself she was more angry at the fact that he'd gone to someone else's bar then the insults he was throwing. “Or do you just like to use the men in your life and cast them aside once you're done with them?” Valia continued to wash the plate she'd plucked from the pile of dirty dishes. “Valia?” She hated how her name sounded on his tongue. Too delicate, too soft. “Should I take that as a yes or a no, or are you going to keep ignoring me?” The cruel glint in his eye didn't suit him. She knew what alcohol did to a man—she didn't understand why she thought of Salem being an exception. “Or keep running away like you always do?”

 

She pretended not to hear him, turning her back, picking up a glass, and slamming it in front of him. His eyes burned into her own, she swallowed but met his gaze evenly, not even glancing down as she filled his glass with water from the tap. Salem glanced down at the cup that she slid towards him and scoffed, pushing it to the side with the back of his hand. “Answer my question.” At least he didn't call her a bitch. Or a whore. Though she was used to those names by now. (Living with _him_ and his drunken fits built up your walls to those words quickly.) Hearing one come from Salem's mouth would probably hurt more then the slur itself, but Valia was good at building walls. She'd been doing so since she was a girl, she hadn't stopped since. “Are you going to keep quiet, pretend like I'm not here?” God, she _wanted_ him to say one, _any_ of them, just so she could have the excuse to throw up another wall. Another barrier between them. “Valia.” _Bitch, whore, slut,_ _cunt_ _—just_ do it _already northern boy._ She needed a reason. His voice grew desperate. “Answer me, Valia.”

 

She finally looked at him, long and hard, teeth grinding together at the way her name sounded in his mouth. Even drunk, he spoke every syllable as if they were coveted, precious. (It's hard to pretend to hate someone when they said your name like that.) Valia squared her shoulders and tilted her head upwards. “Come with me. I want to show you something,” she turned, briskly, leaving the dishes unwashed in the bucket, Salem still sitting at the bar.

 

She walked as calmly as she could up the stairs, the much slower footfalls of the man trailing hesitantly behind her spurring her onwards. She stopped at the door of her room, leaving it open as she headed straight for her desk, rummaging through the papers messily scattered about until she found a worn, leather-bound book and tucked it into the crook of her arm, grabbing the lantern from her bedside on her way out. Salem waited at the threshold, warily shifting from foot to foot, she averted her gaze as soon as their eyes met, looking to the floor and pushing past him, the small book pressed to her side, the lantern hanging from her two hooked fingers.

 

Walking to the end of the hall she stood on her tip-toes to reach the cord hanging from the ceiling, tugging it down and stepping back to let the ladder unfold. Valia glanced behind her, Salem was leaning against the banister of the stairs leading into the bar. She couldn't place the way he looked at her. She handed him the lantern, holding her book between her teeth as she hauled herself up the ladder into the crawlspace, kneeling as she unfastened the hatch to the roof, pushing the heavy metal slab up with a grunt. Valia lay the book beside her momentarily, leaning back down and sticking her arm back down the ladder, motioning for Salem to hand her the lantern again. He did so, she retreated back up, climbing onto the pebbled roof, leaning back down to retrieve the book and their only source of light.

 

She was flipping through the pages soften with age, seated with her legs crossed when he climbed through the hatch, standing beside her a moment, looking down to what she was doing, before wordlessly sitting beside her. The lantern cast a dim circle of warm light that barely encompassed the two of them. He smelled like cheap rum and ash. His shoulders sagged, she didn't look at him.

 

Valia found the drawing near the back of the booklet, plucking the folded sheet from where it lay nestled against the other torn out bits of illustrations and notes to herself. It was a draft of the drawing she did for her father on his birthday, a map of the stars as she saw them that month. The final version was inked fully, the stars themselves in gold and the imagined bodies of constellations formed around the lines connecting them in the heaviest black ink she could find, probably hanging on the wall of her father's tent somewhere. This version looked a mess of smudged pencil lines and messy pen work, but it would do.

 

The center of the paper held a single star surrounded by the depiction of a sparrow, mid-flight, head bowed. “When I was young, an old woman taught me the stories of her people.” Valia called her Mama Wren, she'd live with her whenever her father went away. Mama Wren used to be a friend of her mother's, she taught her how the women of their village would teach their daughters, how to be strong, independent, how to fend for yourself. “She came from the far west, where she was from they still believed strongly in the celestial gods—their myths were told by looking to the sky.”

 

Valia slid the paper in front of the both of them, moving the lantern so they could share its light. Salem didn't say anything, studied the drawing a while, then looked at the stars hanging high above them. “The Sparrow is the brightest star in the sky,” she pointed upwards to it with her other hand, her left still pinned on the drawing. “The old woman told me how, where she lived, the sparrows always seemed to fly towards that star. She said it was so they could get closer to their god's light.” Valia still remembered what nights were like, in that little house right at the edge of the swamp. The shrieking of the cicadas. The stories Mama Wren told her as they looked out over the grass and purple water flowers and slapped away bugs. “In the myths, the Sparrow was the loneliest god. From the highest point in the sky, all he could do was look down upon his brothers and sisters as they circled the earth. He was their protector. Their saving grace.

 

“While the rabbit and the snake and the deer and the whale,” with each name, she pointed to their depiction in her drawing. “Were corrupted by the fires of man, the lust for power, companionship, and glory, he remained pure. Envious of what his siblings had, despite their punishments given to them by the greater gods, but still pure. Free of sin even though he lusted for it so deeply, with his whole being, but the greater gods saw that he needed no punishment for that, as he did not act on his desires. He knew his duty, so he stayed, fixed to the top of the sky.” In some versions of the myth, the deer, in attempts to save her brother from temptation, sews his wings together so that he could not fly down to try and save his siblings from damnation. Valia chose to leave that part out. “As punishment for their corruption, the greater gods created a new celestial being out of the fires of man, the lust for sin, the hunger for glory.

 

“They called him the Wolf, a fearsome beast that roamed the earth for a decade before climbing into the sky, leaving famine and plague in his wake,” she slid her finger downwards, the snarling beast of a hound one of the largest of the constellations. His head was tilted upwards, towards the Sparrow, lips drawn back in a hateful snarl, teeth barred menacingly. His forelegs were lifted upwards, caught mid-bound. “The greater gods wanted first to punish man for their wrong doings, they'd begun to lose theirfearof the gods when the celestial deities began to act more and more like man himself. They did things previously considered taboo, started wars for unjust causes, raped women, enslaved children—knowing that, because the minor gods, the ones in the sky, acted exactly as they, man would be able to act without punishment. The greater gods fixed this as justly as they could—they found their beast a fitting punishment, a divine example of just what greed and savagery could come to.” She took a breath, as if that could quell the shaking of her hands. “Once the Wolf had lost interest in the earth, killing everything in his path, leaving behind destruction and chaos, forests so deep and dark that any man who went in never came back out, beasts so fierce not even the greater gods could control them--”

 

“The Wilds,” Salem spoke softly, the gentle sway of his words shockingly different from their harshness in the bar.

 

Valia acknowledged him with a dip of her head. “Yes, exactly. The Wilds,” she shifted slightly before continuing. “He pulled himself into the sky. The Wolf remained in the heavens longer then he did on earth. You see, the ill actions of the gods amused him more then those of man.” She remembered how Mamma Wren always made the quip of how the reason she said 'men' in reference to the ill doings of the society preceding their own was because it was the men that had 'their heads permanently stuck up each other's asses'. Usually accompanied by the muttering of how not much has changed over the course of a couple hundred years. “Then, very slowly, he began to consume the other constellations. First the snake, then the deer, then the whale, then the rabbit. Swallowing the lights from the sky one by one in the order that they came.

 

“But the Sparrow,” Valia craned her head upwards, looking at the shinning star, bright above them. “The Sparrow only saw how beautifully the Wolf's pelt shone, silver beneath the moon. How gracefully he moved, how wickedly wonderful his smile was.” Her throat began to hurt for some reason, she swallowed painfully. “He was so infatuated with the beast, he was able to fall in love with something that wasn't really there. So pure he wasn't able to acknowledge how the Wolf had killed the siblings he'd used to love, how absolutely vile the Wolf was. All he saw was the positive, his beauty, his grace, how he sang.” She felt Salem's eyes on her, she glanced over at him. He was looking at her in a way that she couldn't place, the same look he'd been giving her on the stairs. “The Wolf sang with the same haunted loneliness that the Sparrow felt, and the Sparrow clung to that, way up where he was in the sky, taking comfort in the fact that he was not completely alone. That someone was just as isolated as he.

 

“The Wolf thought of the Sparrow differently,” she swallowed again, this time glancing over at Salem. He'd stiffened beside her, the lantern throwing a warm glow over his stony expression. _He's beginning to catch on_. “As a sort of… forbidden fruit. The greater gods told him not to touch the Sparrow, as he was not corrupted like his brothers and sisters. The Wolf looked up at the Sparrow with hunger, with hatred, furious that he could not fill his belly with the very last of the celestial deities, unsatisfied with the fullness he already had with the other minor gods in his belly. He was greedy, the _embodiment_ of being so. Made by the greater gods to show humanity just what greed does. But the Sparrow did not see that, and the Wolf sung so very beautifully every night, of how lonely he was, of how cold it was there, on the edges of the sky where he'd retreated. The Sparrow always sang back, of the same loneliness. He knew that if he sang enough, the Sparrow would come down for him. He knew that if he tricked the Sparrow into falling to the ground and abandoning his position in the sky, the greater gods would disown him and he would be free to consume.” She didn't want to look at him, Valia took a deep breath and continued. “And it worked. The Sparrow flung himself from where he was positioned, dead before he even hit the ground, and the Wolf did as he always did.”

 

“Consumed.” His voice was raw, she nodded again.

 

“Once the greater gods realized what had happened, that the sky was now black, that the world below still remained in chaos, they were horrified. Without the Sparrow, they had no one to tell them of what was happening and once they came to investigate the silence, all they found was darkness and the Wolf still smacking his lips. Furious, they slaughtered the Wolf,retrieving the celestial gods from his stomach. Last to come out was the Sparrow, still stuck in the Wolf's throat. The gods were saddened by the Sparrows betrayal, and, when he was resurrected alongside his brethren, it was he that was the first to be punished.

 

“They took his eyes, claiming that he could not possibly need them if he could not see the truth, then nailed both of his wings to the topmost point in the sky, now permanently forced into his solitude. They then punished the Wolf by fixing him in the sky as well, permanently looking upwards at the Sparrow, the one god that stopped him. His punishment was shame, and it was the worst possible sentence the Wolf could have been given. The Sparrow, still deeply in love with the Wolf, sings to him every night, calling for his lover. The Wolf never responds,” Valia took to fiddling with the edge of her pant leg to distract herself from how Salem slumped beside her at the words she spoke. “The Sparrow looks down in grief, the Wolf looks up in scorn.”

 

Salem took her moment of silence and spoke. His voice was raw, she could see the way he'd balled his hands into fists in his lap. “So that's it then?” Maybe the whiskey was waring off, that was what made his words so tired. “You brought me up here to tell me a story instead of just letting me down easy and _telling_ me you don't want a relationship. That's it? That's all your going to give me instead of a real relationship? Because I can leave tomorrow if I wanted to.” She flinched, the words hitting harder then he probably realized. _“I might as well go to the nearest whore house and_ pay _for a girl if you're going to cry every time I take you.”_ _He spoke with such ferocity, spittle flew from his mouth. She took his words as if they were a physical blow, with a flinch and a sharp inhale._ He _always threatened her with other women._ _That always hurt more than his blows, always did_ _._ Salem must have seen the look on her face at his words, his features immediately softened, as if remembering himself. _“_ I mean—if you… If _you_ wanted me to. If you want me to stay, I will. But if you want me to go, if all of this is you wanting me to leave, I'll go.”

 

“The Wolf fed off of the Sparrow's loneliness and used it to disgrace the one being that loved him with all of his being.” She took a shaking breath and looked up at the sky, up to the star high above them. _He doesn't know the reasons why I'm saying this._ She hoped he didn't need ask her why, she hoped she'd be able to leave it hanging there, that she could trust him to fill in the blanks. “I ruin everything I touch, Salem.” Her voice cracked, Valia closed her eyes, briefly, then looked at him as steadily as she could manage, pushing as much as she could behind her warning. “Without fail, _everything._ ” He kissed her.

 

It was the first time he made the first move. It was angry, angrier than she'd ever felt him, his teeth against her lips, his fingernails biting into the small of her back. She bent into him before she could realize what she was doing, hands still curled in her lap, losing her breath in the way he held her, tight against him. It would be so easy to lose herself with him again, bask in the same comfort she'd drowned in for the past seven nights, even if it was just momentary. _You are going to unmake him, in one way or another. You will want to burn and he will set himself aflame right beside you._ Because his lips on hers after her warning just chanted his response of: _strike a match under my feet so that I can feel the_ _warmth,_ _do not warn me of how brightly I_ _will_ _burn._

 

It was there that Valia placed the emotion that was in his eyes when she told him of how the Wolf sang to the Sparrow, and the realization scared her. Planted a seed in her throat that made it hard to breathe, the seed that encouraged her to place two hands against his chest and shove him away. She shook her head, swallowing.

 

“Salem.” It came a desperate plea. She didn't like how it sounded coming from her mouth, the weakness that was there. He drew back, her breath hitched at the way he held both sides of her face. He wasn't going to let go, not yet. And maybe she was too selfish to let him. “I— _Sparrow_ ,” a slip of the tongue, barely gasped with surprise when he banded both of his arms around her torso and lifted her onto his lap. He held her tightly. It was still difficult to breathe. Her chest tightened so painfully she couldn't speak.

 

He did not hold her, he _clung_ to her. A drowning man clawing at piece of driftwood, a soldier pleading mercy on the battlefield. The way his calloused hands clutched her shirt screamed hopelessness, desperation. He would not beg, she knew that of him, but the way he buried his head into the crook of her neck was almost a prayer. It was enough.

 

“Do you want me to leave?” She felt his lips speak the words onto her skin, felt the dullness of his breath.

 

Valia swallowed, closing her eyes and combing both hands gently through his hair, something she sometimes did as he slept, when she was too reluctant to leave. She gave her answer with just the slightest dip of her head, but with the way his breath shuttered out of him it almost seemed as though she'd shot him in the stomach. A lantern glowed dimly. A stray breeze ruffled the pages of an age worn notebook. The stars burned just as brightly as they did thousands of years ago.

 

At the highest point of the heavens, a solitary god howled his loneliness.

 

His response was empty air.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was betaed by thedevilyouknownow check her out she's pretty chill!!


End file.
